In Medias Res
by Celia Stanton
Summary: Their story is not at the beginning or the end. Instead, they are in the middle, making it up as they go along.
1. Prologue: Tell Me Now What You See

_Disclaimer: The characters, storylines and references (including some chapter titles) herein are not mine. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_A/N: Yeah, it's me again. I know you're probably all sick of me by now, but I promised a dear friend "fix it" fic, and have spent the last three (agonizing) weeks trying to do just that. To be honest, I don't think it's as strong as "The Way We Fall," but…consider this my apology for "Walking Wounded" and let's call it even._

_Thank you a million times over to Alamo Girl and Missy Meggins, for being amazing cheerleaders, fearless wielders of the red pen, and all around fantastic friends. This piece would not be halfway good (or posted, for that matter), if not for you._

_One last note: 'in medias res' is a literary device used to begin the story in the middle, and then go backwards. Kind of like "The Hangover."_

* * *

**Prologue: Tell Me Now (What You See)**

She watched from afar, safely behind the barricades of glass and a past that needn't be repeated.

Moonbeams, hazy from exhaustion and the last humid night before Labor Day, spotlighted the perfection of them together, side by side. The sea was calm, the wind quiet-all in reverence for the pair, who after being separated for so long, had finally made their way to each other. Through arduously winding roads of self-doubt, over once broken bridges and across the canyon of his history and her insecurities, now they sat at the ocean's edge, where the water caressed their toes, welcoming their newest visitor and gently asking why it took so long for her to come.

The symbolism wasn't lost on the one who watched. It was a cleansing ritual, voiding any imprint the long summer separation may have burned onto their skin, or the damage distance may have caused.

They were flawed perfection from the word "go." Tormented warriors trying to find each other through the low hanging blackness of disappointment and disillusionment, not sure where they were going, but running as fast as they could, determined to end up in the same place at the same time.

It had been easier said than done, but now, as the voyeur turned off the kitchen light and rolled her suitcase to the door, she realized she never should have doubted that _this_ was the only ending that made any kind of sense.

Simply put, the woman outside - and finally _at_ his side - was the piece of the puzzle that had been missing. She _fit_, her strengths matched perfectly to his worn, tattered edges where needed.

The blonde inside smiled, though she knew they couldn't see through the navy night and blindingly white happiness of a conversation long overdue. With a nod of her head and certainty in her heart, she dropped her keys to the home into the brunette detective's bag, and Richard Castle himself in her capable heart and hands.


	2. In Vino Veritas

**1. In Vino Veritas**

An unexpected thing happened to Kate Beckett in the days after Castle left.

Life went on.

It had to, because he was already gone. Trying to hang on when he'd long let go was painful and pointless.

She still wore her father's watch and her mother's ring. The sun still rose in the east. The _Ledger_ still appeared on her doorstep sometime around 4 AM. Her coffee maker still clicked on at precisely 5:12, because when she'd bought it, she had spent an hour trying to figure out how to work the preset correctly before giving up and deciding she liked the incongruity of the time it had chosen to soothe her senses into wakefulness. A gentle nudge in a world so intent, it seemed, on slapping cold reality across her face like the waves crashing onto the shore outside Castle's window at that very moment.

Her stomach still dropped when she saw _Dispatch_ flash across her phone in the stillness between midnight and morning, knowing she would inevitably accompany the sunrise to deliver the darkest news imaginable.

She still collected herself in the car before approaching a scene, hands safely at ten and two on the steering wheel, because that was one thing she could control in a universe of unknowns.

She looked at her badge and reminded herself she had lived in the time of BC - Before Castle - and had done pretty well for herself during the era. The Greeks had the Acropolis, and Kate Beckett had commendations, letters from family members of murdered victims, and a rapport with her fellow cops not many detectives can maintain for long.

But inevitably her eye would wander to the empty passenger seat (of its own volition, of course), and she'd wonder why the comfortable, familiar constructs she'd once lived by no longer worked. She needed the ability to be efficient and logical. She needed to learn how to compartmentalize, because Lanie had noticed she'd started wearing her sunglasses at scenes, which she never had before.

She couldn't explain that the lenses hid tired, bloodshot eyes and the fact that she was having trouble avoiding thoughts regarding the night he left. She was having trouble avoiding the memory of him walking away, and that the disappointment that accompanied that image suffocated her like the current humidity strangling the city.

She couldn't explain why hearing the meteorologists say the words _heat wave_ made her immeasurably sad and embarrassingly in need of comfort.

She, like the city, needed a reprieve. Something to cleanse her muddy hands and skinned knees, obtained from pulling herself out of razor-edged truths she wasn't prepared to face yet.

The accusatory silence in her car and her apartment had her running from lonely memories and suffocating confidentialities still unspoken. It made her master of one thing she'd never wanted: futility.

She needed to be dichotomous. She needed to stop herself from sliding backwards out of the beauty she'd lived in when the idea that he'd never leave was fact. She was good then; a top notch detective who would have figured out the connection to the teenage girls being killed long before they reached victim number four.

But now that it was fiction - now that he was gone - she felt like she was a pawn on a chessboard, expected to protect and serve with rules she hadn't learned yet.

Now that he was gone, she was caught somewhere between hell and hope; a burning purgatory of acknowledging to herself that he truly might not come back this time.

And now that she'd accepted that he'd unknowingly walked away and she'd been as blank as her beloved white board in trying to call him back, she was caught in a hurricane derailed. A storm hidden in the misleading quiet that befell the city at night that fed off the coldness of her rapturous misery and the heat of the admission that she'd been holding tomorrow in her hand, prepared to give it to him.

In the wee small hours, there was no one to tango with but herself, time and the epiphanies that accompany both the repetitive recesses of weekly solitude and the bottom of a bottle of Jack Daniels. Her mind swirled like liquor around ice cubes as she finally realized she _couldn't_ go back to who she had been before Castle, because she'd evolved. She was no longer the same person she'd been before him. She was no longer a person who could sink into intoxicating denial about her feelings for him. She couldn't hide them beneath a tarp like the ones Lanie laid over bodies.

She was no longer a person who worked well without a partner - in every sense of the word.

_In vino veritas_. "In wine (or harder liquor, when needed), truth."

She had realized she'd neglected his friendship. Did he know the small smile that ghosted across her face when she saw his name on her caller ID, even if there were a thousand bodies piled at her feet, being readied for funeral pyres? Had she ever admitted to him that his _Storm _books were the only thing that got her through horrific cases during which she was forced to acknowledge the scales were not of justice, but of keeping an even ratio of angels to demons on Earth?

Had she told him how much it meant to her when, after her apartment had been bombed, he gave her copies of the books that had been lost among ash and innocence? That she didn't need to read them as often to escape the sensation of Satan's hot fingers reaching through steam grates, trying to drag her to hell? Because since he'd joined the team, she'd found safe solace in _him_?

Did he know she realized she needed to respect him more; outwardly acknowledge that he _was _a full member of the team? That she understood _he_ was simply repeating _her _actions in terminating their partnership? That admitting it to herself threw pulverized understanding back at her, slicing until she tasted both blood and defeat?

In the wee small hours, in the solitude, in the alcohol, again the truth.

No.

She understood why he needed to leave. He'd always had her back, but the only way she could repeat the sentiment was if the word "almost" was an addendum. An unacceptable postscript.

So while he was on Long Island and she was on an island of her own making, she looked herself in the rearview mirror and promised that, if given the chance, she'd take it. She'd be what he'd been to her all along: a friend, definition pending. Probably a multi-hyphenate, a little schizophrenic. Definitely more than a little frustrating. But she'd hang on to it with both hands and pull herself up, white knuckled from grasping patience and the fleeting idea that she could do this. That she could be this again for him, and maybe her passenger seat wouldn't remain empty for too long.

A knock at her window startled her out of her far too easily (for her taste, anyway) accessed Dr. Phil headspace. She nodded an acknowledgment at Ryan before unbuckling her belt - releasing herself from her past failures and granting herself freedom to fix them. She put her sunglasses on and stepped into the sauna masquerading as a downtown alley, following him to their latest victim.


	3. Patron Saint of the Damned

**2. Patron Saint of the Damned**

To touch the end of the world was an impossible task.

But it had to be easier than thinking he could just walk away.

Never before had there been an oxymoron - a bold faced lie - like the words "clean break."

Definitions had shifted. Expectations, of himself and of the people around him, were so much higher. Gone (for the most part) was the man whose existence lived and died on Page Six. Now he read the city beat for those who had _actually_ lived and died, his bare feet resting on the opposite chair, coffee cup in one hand, perspective of his life in the other.

The gulls called to him from the southeast, telling him they were awake, as was the city - and the woman - he'd temporarily left. Not that he'd forgotten; it seemed to be that since he'd tried to run, he couldn't get anyplace far enough away. At night, he swore he could still see the city fully alive, beckoning him home. (The irony that the root of her name matched the basis for a synonym of 'return' was not lost on him.)

He'd thought bringing Gina would serve dual purposes: both to keep him focused, and to relieve the strain that had been building in him for some time. Here, with her, there was no pressure. He didn't have to interpret or examine every word, look, meaning or touch as though he were fifteen years old again. Or, as was the case with a certain brunette detective who, torturously was still not far from his thoughts, the worry that if he _didn't_ pay close enough attention, his chance would roll by like sand at low tide: right through his fingers and never again attainable.

Here, with her: history. Reminders of past failures, the safety of being comfortable in something that he'd already tried - energy he'd already exerted. An outcome he already knew. No risk, no reward.

No rejection.

He didn't begrudge Beckett a relationship with Demming. He hadn't with Sorenson, or any of the casual dates she'd had during their partnership. He wanted her to be happy; she deserved whatever piece of a good life the universe could give her in return for her hard work doling out law and order and balancing karma. He'd just realized that his masks were useless around her. No matter how perfectly sculpted they were to his face, she removed and destroyed them as though they were paper disintegrating among flame. It left him bare; scrambling for cover and dignity before he was burned beyond recognition.

But his phone had remained consistently on the other side of his writing tables - the bistro outside on the deck when it was nice out, and his desk inside when the rain came.

For when Alexis or his mother needed him, naturally.

She'd made her choice, and he'd made his. They were going to have to learn to respect it. A little bit of tequila and a lot of time could do quite a bit for coming to terms.

The wind was more impatient, however, and his newspaper struggled to flift itself from the table and into being noticed. Lest it be caught among the reeds and half-built sand castles dotting the dunes - symbolic structures still standing, even though the foundation had a few cracks - he pulled it from the tabletop and stood, preparing to secure it beneath his arm as he headed inside for a refill and refocus.

The picture that screamed in deafening horror stopped him, straddling the planks on his deck and the purgatory he'd left her alone in.

_Daddy Dearest Strikes Again_, the headline grimaced, forcing out the hellish words through gritted teeth, and he subconsciously rubbed his hands on his jeans, his fingers feeling sticky from the blood on his hands.

A picture of a crime scene - a nondescript alley cordoned off with too-bright yellow tape (a color he never really understood, given that it called attention to men becoming monsters)-and the fifth picture of a pretty blonde teenager, originally labeled a runaway but found murdered, posed and dressed like a doll.

But it was not her photo that haunted him.

It was the slumped over detective in the back portion of the photo, bent at the waist as she relieved Atlas of his burden for a moment. As though she didn't have enough to do, trying to explain the unexplainable to another set of grieving parents.

In the faraway corner of his mind, he felt indescribably guilty for not being there to hold her up while she tried to save the world, and failed.

The lines he saw on her face were not from the creases in the newspaper; the resolution was too grainy, and the zoom too wide. But he knew how dark the circles beneath her eyes were, like she'd gone ten rounds seeking understanding, and lost. She had probably crashed at the precinct since they'd tied the murders together, but not slept. Even rushing DNA, there wouldn't have been a forensic tie until at least the third murder, if they were lucky. She would have paced in front of the white board, marker in hand, expectations and countdowns stalking her like "Daddy Dearest" was following his victims.

She probably hadn't eaten anything, unless she'd found the box of Frosted Flakes he'd stashed in one of her desk drawers.

The wind rustled his hair, gently easing him back into a sitting position and caressing him back into realization. He didn't need to worry about how or where she slept, or what and when she ate. That's what she had Demming for.

The gulls disagreed, screeching loudly in protest and stomping on the waves for emphasis, yelling that she was still his friend, and it was perfectly natural for him to be concerned about her.

His cell glistened in the sun, passing no judgment at all.

_Stay the course, Ahab, or your own "white whale" inside will sell this house for enough money to make about seven luxury sized Peaquods. She's serious about getting that advance back this time._

He sat back down and reopened his laptop, looking at his notes and tapping his pen against the edge of his chin as he pondered whether to move two sections of text.

He heard the sliding glass door open behind him and looked up, using his hand to block the bright noonday sunshine. "Just getting up, are we?" he teased.

Gina rolled her eyes. "Hey, just because you've discovered work ethic doesn't mean I can't have a little fun."

He smiled. "Very true."

She sat on the opposite side of the table, sliding the paper to an angle where she could read it. "Oh, God," she said, voice shaky and barely imperceptible among the caresses of the reassuring wind. "Is that…"

"Yeah. Pretty awful." Suddenly, he was very, very happy Alexis was at Princeton, horny high school boys be damned.

"No, I mean, is that Beckett?" She pointed to the photo on which his eyes had been trained mere moments before. "Your partner?"

His face stung as though he had been slapped when he said, "She's not my partner."

Gina leveled him with her "I call bullshit" look. "Richard. There are a lot of meanings to the word 'partner.' And I'm willing to bet you a case of your beloved Châteauneuf du pape that the concern on your face right now has nothing to do with the girls who are dead."

He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, but remained silent. Gina grinned. "So why don't you call her?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Who said anything about you being right?"

She gestured to his posture. "My first day in Psych 101 at GW. Classic defensive stance."

He did not reply, and Gina continued, her tone softer now. "Listen, Richard, she's known this detective guy, what? A month, tops? You guys have been close for years. You have every right to be worried about her, and you have every right to still be her friend. And it looks like she could need a friend or two right about now." She leaned forward and cradled his knee. "And believe me, you're a very good friend to have."

He chuckled shortly, breathlessly, thankful for the removal of the noose that gathered around his neck any time he thought about Beckett. "Oh, yeah?"

She nodded, blonde hair flying haphazardly behind her. Unbidden, an image of Beckett (and the outfit she wore, which in no, way, shape or form was decent enough to be called a dress) crashing his _Storm Fall_ reading and asking how wind could gather up hair appeared in his mind. Thankfully, Gina's words pulled him from the painfully unattainable mirage. "I can drop your name at any restaurant in town and get the best seat in the place."

He smiled. "So glad I could be of service."

Gina rose from her seat, grabbed his empty coffee cup and headed back into the kitchen, pausing only to squeeze his shoulder. "Just make sure she's okay. Because from the looks of this-" She peered down to his blinking cursor on a blank page and small amount of handwritten material, "she's still a distraction. She'll continue to be one if you don't find out for yourself."

He covered her hand with his. "You're not a half bad friend yourself."

"_And_ I make a killer margarita." She patted him on the back and left him alone, save for the curious reeds who were bending forward, eavesdropping, but trying to act nonchalant in the sea breeze.

_She probably won't be able to talk, anyway. Or tell you anything; you're a civilian._

It would occur to him only later - and only after several of Gina's killer margaritas - that he didn't end that thought with _at the moment._

He thought back to the last time they'd been separated like this; by seemingly lost causes, but somehow with all too simple explanations. He'd tried to keep his distance then, and it had failed spectacularly, a congregation of explosions to his soul similar to the mortar shells attacking him now. And again, he was the same master of futility. He found himself reaching for the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose, fear and loathing smacking him upside the head in tandem.

But the moment he heard the dejected exhaustion in her voice - the monumental amount of effort it took her to say the two syllables of her name - the pressure moved from his head to his heart and squeezed with such brute force that he couldn't answer her.

"Hello?"

He tried to clear his throat, but the sea spray, sand and pain for her left him hoarse. "It's Castle."

There was a long pause. "Uh, hi. Hang on a sec." Indistinct mumbling, then shuffling, much like the incoherencies in his mind at that moment.

And then, her voice as beacon, bright and light. "Sorry, I was in the crib."

_Shit. Brilliant plan _this _was._ "Did I wake you?"

"No. I was…reading, actually."

On instinct - grounded footing he hadn't had use for here (or there, of late, if he were being truthful) - he went for the lighthearted quip. "Damn it, I knew I forgot to forward my _FHM_ subscription."

She met him step for step, and he momentarily wondered why he ever thought they were out of sync. It should have made his heart soar, but instead contracted his stomach in nerves. For them to have been on such unstable ground when he left meant their partnership was far more broken than he'd originally acknowledged to himself. "Don't worry, Esposito's keeping them safe for you. Although, he did mention something about taking them home last weekend, so a few of the pages might be sticky."

_That_ threw him for a loop. "Did you just make a sexually inappropriate joke, Detective Beckett?"

"Might want to duck out there in the boonies, Castle. Wouldn't want to get hit by the flying pigs."

He chuckled, confusion and a bit of relief puckering his skin. "Sounds like you're okay."

Another pause and the brush of hair against speaker as she tucked a lock behind her ear. "I've had better weeks. But, yeah, things are starting to look up."

He watched a sailboat glide across the Atlantic, sliding across the tightrope of a horizon. "Yeah?"

"Lanie did a hell of a job finding enough hair and fluid to get DNA profiles. CODIS kicked out a match. We're just waiting on the no-knock to bring the guy in. And we haven't received any new missing reports, so I'm cautiously optimistic."

He heard mesh relax beneath her weight as she rested against the grate that separated the bullpen from the elevators, and exhaled deeply, relieved she was no longer solely responsible for carrying heaven and hell on her shoulders. He looked out to the colored surf, a small smile touching his lips. "Make sure Demming buys you the good Chinese food when you solve this one."

She coughed violently for a moment, and his smile disappeared instantaneously. She took a couple of wheezing breaths before eventually sputtering, "What?"

"I know you on these cases. You need to eat, but someone else needs to buy. Just do me a favor and get out of the precinct. You need to see the outside world, maybe get a bottle of wine-"

"Castle."

He continued as though she had never spoken. "Actually, stop by my place. I've got a few bottles there. Martha doesn't leave for her production for a couple more weeks. She'll let you in."

"Castle."

His heart rate was doubling as he tried to force the words past the bitter block of angry disappointment in his throat. _Be the bigger person, Rick._ "You said you'd never seen _The Thin Man_ movies, right? I have the box set-"

"Castle!"

It wasn't the emphasis with which she said his name that stopped him.

It was the fact that she was laughing.

He had to clear his throat twice - of fear and of the words tripping over themselves as they tried to scream the truth at her. "What?"

"Would you kindly shut the hell up, please?"

The pain returned tenfold to his head, and he threw a palm against his forehead to stop the throbbing. After he said nothing further, she lowered her voice to a gentler tone, a caress he could feel boroughs away. "Castle, Tom and I are done. Have been…for a while."

He'd long hoped three little words would change the course of their relationship. Of course, _for a while_ had never been considered as a possibility. But the way she added the caveat to the sentence, the emphasis with which she said those particular words struck him momentarily dumb, the cogs of his brain racing to catch up with her dangling meaning.

And within a second, he knew just how long _for a while_ meant.

Within two seconds, he knew what she'd tried to tell him the night he left with Gina.

Within three seconds, he knew she finally felt the same way he did.

And then the world fell off its axis. The gulls cawed and danced victorious, the wind blew its surprise, and Richard Castle stood on his back porch, mouth gaping in surprise like a blowfish the ocean had rejected, unexpectedly left to its own devices on foreign soil.

Even through the hazy stupor of a once unalienable truth shattering like shells beneath shoes, he could hear another voice address her, and then heard the quick clicking of her boots on the mismatched tile of the precinct. When she addressed him again, she was breathless, and he realized she was probably heading to tactical. "Castle? You there?"

He wasn't sure. Thank God she seemed to understand.

"Listen, Markaway came through with our warrants. I have to go."

The response was instinctual, fear for her safety and the realization that there were so many things to say, given this latest revelation, his impetus. "Be careful. And call me the minute you get back."

"I will. Because you and I need to have a discussion about the cover art for a certain novel."

He was surprised when his laugh was thick with emotion. "I have no comment." There were two distinct rips of Velcro and the sound of ammunition clips being loaded into Glocks.

Then, her voice again, lower now, for his ears only, and he could hear the smile change her inflection. "Castle, I'm really glad you called."

_You have no idea._ "Just be safe. And I left my vest in Montgomery's office. Can you double up those things?"

A pause, and a definite shift in the air; purplish hesitation that lightened to lavender when she said, "Not unless I want to be like the kid in _A Christmas Story_ who can't put his arms down."

He heard the SWAT commander say they were rolling out and said, "Go. I'll be here when you get back."

This time, they both believed it.


	4. Admission Against Interest

**3. Admission Against Interest**

When she emerged from the interrogation, she felt drained, like the walking wounded - never the living dead, for she would never liken her life or circumstances to the unending misery of her victims and their families.

Part of her wanted to equate the sluggishness she was feeling to lack of sleep or the monumental, laborious effort of extracting a confession. But she couldn't pass by the interrogation mirror - her reflection in a room known for truth - and retreat into the safety of silent falsehoods.

_Her_ truth was that she wanted Castle here; that his absence somehow made the victory of getting Robert Maurer to admit what he had done to those girls less meaningful. It would mean less in the morning, over runny eggs and toast, the only jam on her table strawberry, because he wouldn't be there to eat the grape jelly that had somehow made it into her fridge and never left.

So much like the man himself.

She'd once loved the fact that they were incongruous even on the most mundane of topics. Now it was a reminder that she was constantly unbalanced in his absence; fighting to stand on her own two feet, even as it felt like someone had cut her off at the knees.

She wanted him here, to be part of the beers and the high-fives. To tell her with a simple hand sliding down her arm and grasping her right and middle fingers that he'd ground her so she would not "fade into that good night," as she so often feared.

She wanted to be able to call him. To tell him how, for the first time since she was a rookie, she'd had to step away from the scene and walk toward the river, silently praying their fourth victim hung on to the soothing sounds of nature and not the sounds of madness monsters create during a massacre.

And now she had the chance. He'd reached out.

But did she want to take it? Did she even _know _how to reach back?

As she walked toward the front door - toward freedom from the encroaching, blackening fingers of Death intent on holding her forever in the dark - she asked herself if she wanted to become Dr. Frankenstein's (or Dr. Parish's) next case. Did she want to reopen old wounds; admit her truths aloud, finally giving them purchase, while knowing that more rejection could still be looming on a murky horizon?

She had always seen them as two charged particles. Sometimes they couldn't occupy the same space; would fly apart so violently that it was impossible to imagine them creating anything but chaos.

And sometimes, they'd circle each other, studying, teasing, engaging, timing, and when impetus and combustion threw them together, it was invigorating, mesmerizing, electrifying. It created something she, in unmitigated honesty, couldn't live without.

What was scarier? The prospect of a life led alone, or the idea of telling him she wanted him beside her as days faded from future to memory?

Would she rather be sorry they jumped together but failed? Or safe, never jumping at all?

She'd tried to remain dedicated in not giving a name to her feelings about Castle. Everything had definitions pending; blank pages waiting for an impression. They were going to have to rip away the constructs, the walls, the assumptions and implications and just talk it out.

Which wouldn't be a bad thing for Castle, given how expressive he was. But for her, verbosity meant vulnerability; ripping meant bleeding. Pain. It was easier to cross a crime scene cordon than it had been to cross the threshold of the conference room to ask Castle for a private moment.

As she flagged down a taxi, she realized that they'd been doing this since he started. Her baby steps never could keep up with his marathon pace.

But perhaps _now_ was the time to follow him, to chase him to the edges of oblivion. And as her jeans greeted the cracked leather of the cab's bench seat, she realized that _he_ had been following _her_ this whole time. Her reading material when he'd called was her favorite _Storm _book, a faithful friend in a trying time of need. His vest was no longer in Montgomery's office, but back in her trunk, where it belonged.

There were so many things left unsaid; even more left undone. That was the nature of the beast they called life, a monster she'd fought a thousand times. But what was different about this battle was that he could be right next to her - two strangers who had become each other's pillar of strength in times of great tumult.

The rigid lines of her world were meant to be lost beneath the color of his. The combination would no doubt make a beautiful picture.

It would be ordered chaos; an oxymoron, yes, but an intriguing one - much like the man himself. A puzzle worth the effort of putting together.

The thought stopped her just short of putting the key in her lock, her hand hovering above the deadbolt. She never would have thought so…poetically three years ago. So hopefully. So certainly.

So like him.

There was still an undercurrent of hesitation palpable beneath the turning her door handle. It had taken the cessation of his presence - a stinging dismissal that still made her eyes water - for her to even pretend she had the courage for recognizing what he meant to her. She was wading into murky water without mooring, cautious to the end.

She couldn't jump in. It's just not who she was.

Would it be enough?

_Only one way to find out._

Deciding to damn the time, she reached for her bag and pulled out her cell, scrolling through her contacts until she found his name.

He answered on the first ring. "Are you okay?"

She had to smile, the gap in her lips allowing her to breathe fully for the first time, it seemed, in days. "I'm fine. It took a little while, but we got a confession. He'll go up for arraignment tomorrow."

A long yawn. "That's my girl."

She wasn't sure if he realized he said it, for he continued. "Tell me what happened with Demming."

She sighed. Right to the jugular. At least _he_ hadn't changed, even as she underwent undefined transformation. "He wasn't what I'm looking for."

"And what is it you're looking for, Detective? Tall, dark, and handsome who also happens to be a best selling author?"

"I thought Stephen King was already married."

There was an excited smile in his voice, and she knew he understood what she was trying to say even if she didn't know how to be that overt. "You're cruel."

"It's four in the morning. I'll be nice later."

She heard sheets rustling and then the click of a lamp. "We should have this conversation face to face. Come up here."

Her stomach knotted, but her voice remained even. "I'm sure the house is nice, Castle, but three's a crowd."

"No, three's company. Come and knock on our door…"

She laughed aloud, a sound so unexpected that she jumped. "I'm hanging up now."

"Fine. I'll come to you. I can be there in time to take you to breakfast."

She pursed her lips and then took a deep breath. "I have to work. Arraignment, remember?"

"You know, they did invent this newfangled thing called twenty-four hour eating establishments. You might check one out. In fact, I'll take you to my favorite, and then walk you to court."

She chuckled, but it was short and rolled into clearing her throat. The pause that stretched between them was taut wire, almost ready to snap, and it ended when he spoke again. The change in his tone gave her whiplash; his voice was strained, barely a whisper. "Or do you not want to see me?"

"That's not it at all," she replied, surprised at the ease with which the answer came. "I just…it's hard to find the words." She felt like banging her head against her coffee table. _This _was why she had resisted him before. She always stumbled out of the gate, the muddy, unforgiving ground preventing her from crossing the yearned for finish line, which lay hazily in the distance like a mirage.

His tone retreated into gentleness. "Just walk it through with me, like we're working a case. What happened with Demming?"

Taking a shakily fortifying breath, she said, "I acknowledged that there is something between you and me. What it is, I honestly have no idea. That night, I was going to tell you I wanted to explore it."

She should have known he'd catch her use of the past tense. His sharp intake of breath felt like a punch in the stomach, and she hastened to explain before either of them hyperventilated. "I'm not running, Castle. But I've done some - well, a lot of thinking, and I realized that I need to repair what's been damaged. Get our friendship back on track. And then if we decide we want to take the next step, we can."

His words were slow, deliberate. "You didn't say 'partnership.'"

"No, I didn't. If you decide you don't want to come work cases again, that's fine with me. I'd miss it, but having you as my friend - or whatever - outweighs everything else in the importance column." It struck her as contradictory that it had been a case that broke their long held stalemate, and yet she was suggesting it was all right to walk away from the even longer held constant of her job.

Then again, their entire relationship could be summarized as contradictory.

It could also be described as her _new_ constant.

She glanced at the empty austerity of her apartment, still untouched by much in the way of personality, and thought back to late night protectiveness turning to early morning pancakes. She inched further into the unknown, pushing aside her defensiveness the way he'd kicked down her door, before her world had exploded. "I've tried my life without you in it. Frankly, I don't like it."

Her hand was gripping the arm of the couch so ferociously that her knuckles were nearly opaque as she waited in the oppressive silence. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding when he said, "So, basically, you miss me."

She chuckled more heartily, and sank onto the couch in relief. "I guess so."

"And you want to take it slow. Talk it out, but from a safe distance."

"I'm not afraid of _you_, Castle." The unspoken postscript hung between them like the rolls of June humidity uncoiling themselves across the city; heavy and burdensome.

He sighed, voice quiet and laced with hurt - but, she realized, not for him, for her. That she couldn't yet fully believe he'd always be there to catch her when she fell appeared to wound him worse than a full out rejection would have. "I know, Kate."

She wanted to apologize; tell him _it's not you, it's me_ wasn't a platitude but candor, but found herself frustratingly wordless again.

He seemed to understand. His voice stronger, he continued, "Then that's what we'll do: take it day by day. Snails may pass us on the way, but, hey, the world's oldest man is a hundred and thirteen. Everything should still work then."

She laughed quietly, the knots in her stomach uncoiling like an unthreatened snake. "Thank you for being so understanding."

There were no traces of sleep or hesitation in his voice when he answered. "Of course. We…the past few months hurt us. Not just Demming. Maybe it goes back to Ellie, or even to me interfering with your mother's case. You and I skirt around honesty like ballerinas dance with the Joffrey. And up until now, our relationship has been mostly lived around autopsy reports and witness statements, never in the real world."

She found herself nodding. "There needs to be a balance. Us as us, not Detective Beckett and Consultant Rick Castle. It'll be a whole new world." _One I'm not so sure I'll be good at. But I have to try._

He groaned. "Oh, God."

Nervous knots tied themselves further inside her stomach - complicated twists she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to undo. She sat up rigidly, preparing herself for the inevitable bullet to the heart she'd tried to convince herself was steel but was clearly glass. "What?"

"Alexis was obsessed with _Aladdin_ when she was little. Watched it every day after school. Now I'll be singing that stupid song all night. Thanks, Kate."

She chuckled. "Anything for you, Castle."

"Now _that_ sounds like it has potential."

She rolled her eyes, but held a contradictory grin firmly in place. "So what do you propose we do?"

He sighed, and she could envision him pursing his lips and tilting his head as he thought. "We consider time spent in the Hamptons a vacation now."

"Rather than forced exile?"

His low chuckle warmed her slightly. "Yeah. And we talk. Take it nice and slow; no pressure. Friends first, then maybe 'something more.' One step at a time."

"Funny. I always thought you only had two speeds: fast or faster."

This time, he didn't laugh. "I think we both understand this needs a delicate approach. A _different _approach. I don't want to screw this up, Kate. Because if I have to walk away again…"

The answer lingered like a thorny vine, painful but altogether real. "You won't come back."

And there they were, the words they'd both been so steadfast in avoiding. The truth that the wee small hours and tequila could not erase, always in the back of their minds, through serial killers both on and off the page.

She took a resolute breath. "So we just…do what have to. You stay up there and finish your book."

"And you stay down there and save the world." There was something to his voice that she couldn't quite name, but decided to wait on trying to identify it, for she was so far out of her element that she needed to hang on to as much normalcy as she could muster.

She went for the quick, witty answer, easily found thanks to his influence on her. "My cape's in the shop."

"Pity."

"Yeah, it's a nice shade of blue. Really complements my shield."

The silence stretched between them, like the tether she'd been trying to hang on to since he'd left. But where before this afternoon it had been slack, for he hadn't picked it up, it was taut. He was back.

_They_ were back.

She sank back down onto her couch, the warmth coming not from its cushions, but from the prospect of grasping hold of something she'd been so certain she'd lost. She was pulling her feet behind her when he started to speak again. "Think you can solve any cases without me?"

She chuckled. "I think I did pretty good my first time out. Caught a serial with DNA _and_ a confession."

"Well, you had the best teacher."

"That's why Montgomery lectures each class of cadets that goes through the Academy."

He gasped dramatically, as though her words had pierced his skin. "You are _vicious_ before dawn, Detective Beckett."

"Have Gina find you a Band-Aid and kiss it better."

She heard a loud _crack _- probably his head impacting the headboard - and then a muffled, "Shit." When he returned to the line, he was scrambling to speak before finding the words. "You know nothing's going on here. There. Ever. Been there, divorced that."

She really should have made him squirm, but instead took pity. "I gathered that, Castle."

She could feel his relief through the open connection. "Are you ever going to call me by my first name?"

The first brushes of sunrise started to paint the sky, and she walked over to the small window above the kitchen sink to count its many colors. "No."

He seemed surprised by her quick vehemence. "Why not?"

_Honesty is not a deadly weapon, Katie, even though it might feel like it._ "You're Richard or Rick to everybody else. I like that you're Castle to just me."

"And Ryan and Esposito."

Damn his pragmatism. _Now_ she was going to make him squirm. "Are you suggesting you want to start dating them, too?"

"Do you usually get this delusional when you're exhausted?"

"Yes."

"Duly noted. We'll start having pre-breakfast poker tournaments."

Her relieved limbs started to feel heavy, sedated, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. "I'd still kick your ass."

"I might let you, if it's strip poker."

She started to laugh, but it instead came out a yawn. His voice was soft and comforting; akin to him draping a blanket across her body and running his hands gently through her hair. "Go to sleep, Kate. I'll talk to you later."

She walked into her bedroom and drew the shades, thankful she'd invested in room darkening panels. Crawling into bed, she fell asleep within minutes, a smile on her face and Castle still on the other end of the line.

It was the first time since his departure that her fear-born demons didn't force her awake after two hours.


	5. The Cost of Living

**4. The Cost of Living**

Distance, he thought from behind the wheel of his rented convertible, had never been so frustratingly tantalizing. An oxymoron to some, but the easiest descriptors for their rather unique situation.

Distance that was slowly getting smaller as he headed back toward the city. Distance that, with every yellow line thrown beneath his car, was making his heart beat double time.

He hadn't told her he was coming, but did she honestly expect him to be anywhere else? On _today_ of all days?

He'd done his level best to give Beckett the space she'd requested - that _he_ needed as well - as they settled onto unmapped roads never traveled and needing to be painstakingly searched.

Their nightly discussions were for their ears only, kept safely behind a heavily fortified door so the outside world wouldn't sully their burgeoning relationship with its dingy reality.

At first, the conversations had been almost silent, both of them caught in a tide of wonderment that they were actually moving forward. But as time went on, just as they had when he'd first joined the team, they fell into a circadian rhythm. An undeniable symbiosis.

There was no more hemming and hawing; no more excuses that didn't hold weight beneath the glare of interrogation or introspection. Instead, there were confessions laid bare. She had his heart and this time, there was nothing standing in their way that could lead to his spirit dying among ashes of bad timing or non reciprocation.

They found it slightly intimate; ways to kiss without touching. Slowly, they had become uninhibited on the phone. They had no one to answer to but the click of her incorrectly set coffee pot clock and the shells he was secretly collecting for her that served dual purposes: to hold down his notebook during brisk evening winds, and to remind him he finally had something to go home to.

Her voice held no traces of the serious sanctity with which she spoke while on the job, nor did it have a caustic lining to it, the tone reserved for when she was pissed off. He could feel her relaxation across the miles, the gentleness of her breath.

He still hadn't uttered the words he'd been longing to say for most of the past year. He also had yet to tell her that he understood how hard it had been for her to admit some of the things she had - that she didn't like her life without him, that she'd been terrified he wouldn't come back - simply because he was too caught up in the invigorating excitement of having his best friend back.

He hadn't admitted to her that he was terrified as he drove, fingers clenched tightly across the hot leather of the steering wheel, to do anything other than inch along at a snail's pace. Instead of the sun, Fear blistered his skin as he considered the fact that he was driving toward something - someone - he'd wanted so desperately but never truly believed he'd ever have. And now, it was dangling like a brass ring in front of him, casting a glow to catch his eye.

Right within his grasp. Mere inches away.

He was scared to grab it, because of the lingering question that rolled in his mind in the moments between pressing 'send' on his cell phone and waiting for her to click on the line: _What do you do when you have everything you've ever wanted?_

He'd lived so many scenarios, things Kate didn't know about yet. This was not one of those situations. He'd never believed in "having it all," instead choosing to take small victories when he could get them. He was running blind through a thicket of trees, certain he was going to trip over the roots; or worse, slam into her at full speed and injure her in the process.

For now, he was happy to continue on the carousel and its endless rotations, waiting for just the right moment to stand on shaky feet but determinedly walk to claim his prize.

But today was a deviation from that cycle; special circumstances he needed to operate under.

He pulled the car off the highway and followed the directions he'd mapped on his phone. Salt and sand drifting behind him, he eased into the quiet serenity on the outskirts of Brooklyn. He always forgot about the lush lives lived here - both plant and animal.

The wind was picking up in preparation for an oncoming storm, forcing the heavy July air to blow frenetically. Sadly, though, the breeze did nothing to disperse the dense heat and humidity. Instead, it spread it thickly and evenly, like moss floating on the top of a pond, completely and frustratingly impenetrable. Sweat pooled at the nape of his neck and the small of his back, and as he ascended a hill that led him to the back of the property, he couldn't help but shake his head. Anyone who thought moisture traveled in easily managed beads had obviously never been in the grip of an East Coast heat wave.

He wasn't dressed for the elements. Instead of his normal summer uniform of bare feet and shorts, he wore the best suit he had, an absorbing black necessity as he faltered beneath the ferocious sun and the inviolability of what he was about to do.

He parked the rental in the gravel lot of the small chapel that greeted him when he ascended the hill, and step out to survey his new surroundings.

The cemetery was unexpectedly vast - and unsurprisingly somber - but the view from here was magnificent. The whole of the neighborhoods beneath were spread out in silent reverence before those who looked over them. Honoring who and where they were. And, in true New York fashion, never forgetting who they'd been.

He reached into the car and picked up the bouquet he'd gotten on his way out of the Hamptons, folding his hands around their stems and walking to the fourth row of graves.

He saw the plot he was looking for far before being able to read the name inscribed on the marble. An angel with an upturned face was etched into the side of the marker, and a bouquet of lilies sat atop the stone facing her, so that she too could drink in their scent.

A silent thank you from a previous visitor for looking over their loved ones.

He slumped slightly when he realized that Beckett had probably already been there today; probably before her shift had started. _Christ, Rick, your timing _sucks.

A small smile pulled at the corners of his lips when he recognized how applicable that sentence was to everything he'd ever done with her.

He continued on to Johanna Beckett's grave, laying his own roses at the bottom of the headstone. Truthfully, it didn't matter whether her daughter was here with him or not; introductions still had to be made.

He'd never been one to go to church or pray on a regular basis (save for when he was trying to draw a winning hand based solely on the river card), so at first he wasn't sure what to say.

But when the words came, he wasn't sure if they'd ever stop.

"Mrs. Beckett," he began, not much out of formality but because her family name evoked love and respect every time he thought or said it, "My name's Richard Castle. I'm a…friend of your daughter's." He knelt in front of the grave, pulling at a stray dandelion. "I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday, and tell you…"

He pulled his lips tightly as he fought to find the right words. "Well, to tell you that she's an extraordinary woman. Probably the best person I've ever met - or will _ever_ meet. You would be so proud of her. She's magnificent." There were no stipulations to that statement; not _at her job_, _taking care of her father, keeping me mostly out of trouble._ It was all-encompassing, just like the woman herself.

"I, uh, also wanted to explain myself to you," he continued, only halfway noticing that the breeze had quieted since he started speaking, the shifting of the trees not producing wind, but instead shushing their leaves to better hear. "I know she probably told you that I looked into your death, even after she asked me not to. But what you have to understand, Mrs. Beckett, is that I did it _for_ her. I wanted to help her in the ways she's helped me. She's helped me find purpose again, even after I was convinced I had no more chances left." _After I thought I didn't deserve any more._ "I know that the unknown can eat at your soul like acid, and I didn't want that agony for her. I didn't want her to have to hide her grief - or any part of her, for that matter - from me. But I overstepped the boundaries she'd set, and I apologized. Now I'm apologizing to you. I hope you can understand my motives, but know that I respect your daughter very much, and intend to honor her wishes from hereon out."

An unexpected and unfamiliar voice made him jump. "I wonder if Vegas has set an over/under line for how long that promise will stick."

Castle stood quickly, brushing grass from his knees. The man's face was obliterated by the sun shining directly on him when Castle first turned, but when he took a step closer, they were shielded by the large tree overlooking the section and he could make out the visitor's features.

His heart beat in double time, hammering a repetitive litany of "oh, shit," when he realized Beckett got her eyes from her father.

The visitor extended his hand, and with the confirmation of the man's identity, Castle began to sweat even more. "Jim Beckett."

Castle repeated the gesture. "Rick Castle. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"No _sir_s here. I'm not _that_ old yet."

Castle chuckled, moving to his left and preparing to walk back to the car. "I'm sorry for intruding. I'll -"

Jim shook his head and stopped him with a raised palm. "It's fine. But you do know Katie was already here today."

Castle nodded, trying to read the look on the older man's face. It was an unnerving scrutiny; unblinking, and he realized Beckett got a lot more than her eyes from her father.

"But you drove down from the Hamptons anyway?"

Castle lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Still needed to pay my respects."

There was an impressed tilt to Jim's face, and he looked beyond Castle, past the graves into the clouds quickly turning from white to greyish blue. "Why now? You've never been here before, for the…anniversaries."

Brutal honesty spilled out of his mouth like a detonation. "I got my head out of my ass."

Jim laughed outright, and somewhere near them, a bird took flight, wings flapping in scolding annoyance that they should be more respectful in this place. "Took you long enough."

He returned the other man's mirthful expression. "Better late than never?"

Turning in the oppressive noonday sun, the older man folded his arms and refocused his gaze on Castle. "I don't think that's supposed to be a question, Mr. Castle." Tilting his head, he queried, "Or do you still _want_ it to be?"

Castle took a half step back; it was easier to be blinded by the bright sky than the interrogation lamp Beckett's father had apparently trained on him. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Look, you have a daughter, right?" At Castle's affirming nod, Jim continued, "What would you say to her if she'd told you she was on the way to becoming 'more than friends' with her partner? Something she's wanted for a bit now. And then you hear hesitation in her partner's voice…"

Castle shook his head vehemently. "Not hesitation. Just deliberate cautiousness."

Jim's expression bore doubt and the fleeting thought that the writer was simply using an easily found synonym. "She'll kill me if she ever hears what I'm about to say, but you have to be careful with her, Rick. She doesn't lower her inhibitions easily, because she gets wounded just as effortlessly. I don't want her to have to grieve your loss from her life the way we had to grieve Jo's from ours."

Castle stepped back toward his companion so the other man could see the truthfulness in his next statement; see how its committed intensity deepened the color of his eyes. "I will try not to hurt her again, Mr. Beckett. She's…" The brown grass crunched beneath his feet as he shifted his weight. "I've wanted this for a long time, too."

Jim nodded once, succinctly. "At least you didn't say you'd _never_ hurt her."

"In all honesty, I think she'll probably hurt me first. On our second case alone, she mentioned twice that she wanted to shoot me."

Jim expelled a breathy chuckle before sobering. "I'm not going to tell you to take care of her. You know she can do that on her own just fine. But I will ask that you just be there when she needs you. Even before she knows she needs you. Just…catch her when she falls." He glanced down to the grave, and his next words were full of heartbreaking longing. "She's all I've got."

_I know the feeling._ Then, on an impulse impossibly described, Castle asked, "When you're done here, would you like to go to lunch? I'd…like to get to know you a bit."

Jim smiled, pointing his index finger toward Castle. "You're fishing for embarrassing stories."

Castle pretended to feign nonchalance. "Hopefully with corresponding pictures." He pointed behind them, to the church, and said, "I'll be over there when you're done."

Jim's voice stopped him as he was about to cross from grass to gravel. "She would have liked you, you know. Johanna. And the fun she would have had teasing Kate about it…"

The wistfulness in his voice carried a piercing stake to Castle's heart. He didn't reply, for there was nothing to say. He simply left the man to his memories and retreated to the soothing safety of air conditioning.

* * *

When he arrived back in Southampton, the only thing to greet him was the ringing of his cell phone. As he turned on the lights and tossed his suit jacket haphazardly on the back of the living room couch, he fumbled for the interrupting device, the tone cheerily indicating the caller's identity. "Hi, you."

No preamble, just breathless shock, tinged with amusement. "You had lunch with my father?"

He turned the thermostat down, trying to ward off the stubborn humidity. Unbuttoning his dress shirt, he moved into the kitchen to get a bottle of water. "I was hungry, he was hungry, and there was a good deli down the street. Pretty easy to involve linear thinking, I'd say."

He heard her chair squeak and then glanced at the clock, which indicated that she was probably staying late to finish up paperwork. "What were you even _doing_ with my father?"

Remnants of sweat and sun caught in his furrowed brow. "He didn't tell you?"

Her reply was slower, gentler. "Said I should ask you."

He flopped on the couch, toeing off his shoes and socks. "I, uh, went to your mom's grave today."

The silence sent a prickling shiver down his spine, and where he had been overheated all day, now he momentarily wondered if he'd ever get warm again. "You there, Kate?"

She cleared her throat, and in the background, he heard honking horns and the faraway drill of a sledgehammer. She'd stepped outside, but for what? Privacy? To yell at him to leave well enough alone? To demand to know if her father had told him the story of how she had been Tom the Turkey for her elementary school's fall play when she was in second grade? (He had. And apparently there was video.)

He was preparing himself for the worst, leaning forward in a brace position and ready for impact, when she spoke again. Her voice was unnaturally high and tight. "Why were you…"

He didn't want her to have to say 'grave' again, so he answered quickly. "I memorized your mom's file. I remembered what today was. I figured I'd be there if you needed me."

"Then why didn't you tell me you were coming? Or call when you were here?"

"Got a little sidetracked," he said, a smile in his voice. "I would have stayed, but the editor's sending the first draft back tomorrow, and I need to be here to get it." _So I can get home to you._

Her breath was short, staccato-like. She swept it away when she cleared her throat. "Thank you."

Rain started to tap insistently against the window panes, trying to distract him. "For what? I didn't do anything."

Her voice was fuller now, but heavy; if he didn't know better, he would have thought she was fighting back tears. "You did, Castle. You did a lot more than you know."

"You know I'd do anything for you."

An admission he didn't see coming appeared in her next words. "Yeah, I know." He heard ferocious rain hit an awning, almost drowning out her follow-up sentence. "I miss you."

His heart seized, both at the candor with which she spoke, and the soft tone she used. "Come up here. Just for the weekend. I'd love to see you."

Her voice was wistful. "I'm on call this weekend."

"Switch with Esposito or Ryan."

"Ryan's out of town with Jenny. I offered to team up with Esposito so he didn't have to work solo."

He had to grasp something other than disappointment, so he reached for humor instead. "Should I be jealous?"

Her voice lilted with unexpressed laughter. "Of me blowing you off to stay with another guy? Never."

"Have I ever told you how frighteningly adept you are at sarcasm?"

"One of my better traits."

He shook his head, but smiled nonetheless. "Believe me, it's not."

"Gotta keep you on your toes, Castle. Wouldn't want your eye to go wandering to Maude in the Motor Pool."

"Well, now that you mention it, she _is_ rather fetching for an octogenarian."

"Bastard." Somehow, a loving word coming from her lips.

"Part of the reason you love me."

The thunder rolled in warning, urging him back behind the line he'd inadvertently crossed. When she said nothing for a full minute, he helped her to her feet and away from the minefield they were standing on. "So, what are you wearing?"

She laughed fully now, and from the increase in volume, he could tell she was standing against a brass pole while the storm banged the awning's ties against it. "My badge."

"Kinky. Although, that _does_ give me a great idea for the cover art for the next book."

"You're certifiable. You do know that, right?"

"Still waiting on confirmation from the American Psychological Association."

"Ah."

The silence hung comfortably between them, and he relaxed into it, until she said, "Castle, I'm getting drenched out here. Can I call you later?"

A flash of regret as strong as the lightning reflecting off the Atlantic splashed across his face. But his voice remained strong when he replied, "You better."

He could almost envision how perfectly her eyebrow arched. "Or what?"

There wasn't much he could threaten her with, save one promise. "Or I'll upload the Tom the Turkey video to YouTube."

The pounding, disbelieving rain echoed loudly in his ear before she breathed out a blistering warning. "You wouldn't _dare_."

His laugh surprised him in its lightness, given the encumbrances he'd taken to carrying as he walked a line he'd tried to leave behind but always seemed destined to run back to. But he shouldn't have been surprised, given how forcefully caught he was in the confines of the relief that they'd granted themselves permission to inch to the edge of insanity - of thinking they could make the leap into the unknown, as long as they held on to each other. "I think you know me well enough to know there's not much I wouldn't dare do."

She expelled another breath, one unsure whether it was a disbelieving laugh or a conceding sigh. "I am in so much trouble, aren't I?"

He knew she wasn't just talking about embarrassing photos, and how tight her chest must have been feeling as she uttered the candid words. He'd been there too, beaten to a bloody pulp from fighting the ever encroaching truth with broken fists of denial. "Afraid so. Unless you can think of a way to bribe me into silence…"

Her voice was fuller now, its rhythm more teasing. "You have no idea of the things I could do to you."

A shudder, like those that trailed down his back when a raindrop got caught beneath his collar, ran through him. "With or without handcuffs?"

Her reply was sultry, shaded in reddened, maddening suggestion. "You'll just have to wait to find out."

There was a finality in her voice that, throughout all of their conversations, hadn't been there before. He'd always felt two steps ahead of her, and though he was gripping her hand and telling her he wouldn't let her fall, she was still reticent to follow. Now, though, there was a foreign certainty tingeing her words, and he realized this was her way of telling him she was ready. Not to chase him, nor to lead him; instead to walk beside him.

Finally, partners in every sense of the word.

She was trying to figure out how to string words together that he'd thought about often, because she'd long ago morphed from a "conquest" into one of the only things in his life that made sense. The only person who made him feel real; alive. And the fact that she did it among pandemics and in the middle of storms - bringing light and vivacity to the darkest corners of a deadened, scorched Earth - only made him admire her more.

Love her more.

The crack of lightning and quickly replying thunder made him jump; brought him back to reality. "You should get inside before they come ask you to pose for a wet t-shirt calendar."

Her teeth seemed to be chattering as the precinct door slammed behind her; she was probably soaked to the bone. "Might be a bit too late for that."

He couldn't stop the hope from sliding out alongside his reply. "Send me a picture?"

"In your dreams, Castle."

He pretended to seriously consider her point. "Not really. In my dreams, you tend to be -"

"I'm hanging up now," she interrupted, laughing. "I need to change. And if you say, 'don't change too much' or insert some other cliché in there, I'll have Gina kick your ass. I expect better from you."

"Noted."

The break between their sentences was warm, soothing. He heard the locker room door squeak open on ancient springs that hadn't seen WD-40 since the Nixon days, and said, "Call me later." Not a request or a command, but no longer a question, either.

"I always do."

As he disconnected and headed to the bathroom to shower the heat of the day away, his smile wasn't one of amusement. It wasn't one of relief, or even excitement.

It was an indication of the purest form of happiness he'd ever experienced.


	6. Taking the Long Way

**5. Taking the Long Way**

The Williamstown Theatre Festival occurred in a place where a state and a commonwealth (New York and Massachusetts) - essentially the same entity but holding traits so personal that they defined who they were - converged. Located on the campus of Williams College, it was a place that had many dreamers descend on it, looking for something only to be found on its grounds: the ability to start a new future.

Which is why Kate Beckett stood at the entrance to the Main Stage, searching for a familiar face among the sea of spectators. Checking her watch again, she started to take out her phone when a delicate hand cupped her shoulder.

Turning caused Beckett's dark hair to fade within the searing hues of Martha Rodgers' tresses. It also allowed for a wide smile to grace both women's faces.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" Martha asked, pulling her out of the way of patrons taking their seats. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but…"

Beckett's head reared back slightly in surprise. "Martha, it's your opening night. Where _else _would I be?"

Martha sighed, shaking her head with her smile now split - half amusement, half amazement. "I figured you'd be down in the city, receiving your award."

The brunette chuckled, shifting gravel beneath her sandals. "It's not an award."

Martha pinned her with a knowing gaze that seemed to gain strength in the quickly setting sunlight. "Meritorious Police Duty, isn't that right? For 'highly valued acts of police service'?" She took the detective's hands beneath her own. "The parents of those Daddy Dearest victims launched a campaign to get you recognized. The mayor and the commissioner agreed. And you're up here in," she lowered her voice dramatically, "Red Sox Nation with _me._"

Kate laughed. "I can defend myself against the Nation. But you…you're…" There was only one word for it, an utterance that used to bring sharp jolts of pain shooting from head to toe, but now brought sweet relief. "Family."

Martha brought her into a tight hug, warm and loving. So different from the last time they'd embraced: the night they found out they were again chasing her mother's killer.

The redhead stepped back, dabbing at her eye. "Oh, kiddo. You're going to ruin my makeup."

Beckett smiled. "Sorry." Looking around the entrance again, she turned an eye on Martha and tried to ask nonchalantly, "Is Cas-Richard here? I've tried calling him, but it just goes to voicemail."

Martha looked at her confusedly, but then pulled her lower lip between her teeth and rolled her eyes skyward. "How much do you want to bet he's on his way into the city to see you get your medal?"

She couldn't help it; Beckett laughed, loud and strong. "So apparently we're going to have to work on this whole two-way communication thing."

The actress's eyes shifted into interest. "You're going to _work_? On _communicating_?With _my_ son?" At Beckett's measured affirmation, Martha clasped her hands together. "So that you may move forward into a…_relationship_ with him?"

Beckett nodded slowly, trying to gauge the other woman's reaction. "We've been taking it slow, trying to figure our way through things."

Arms now crossed, Martha leaned on her back leg, scrutinizing the detective from head to toe, and unnerving the younger woman in the process. "I sense a 'but' coming."

Beckett took a deep breath and prepared to speak her final truth of the summer, the one that had been planted back in May but took until the end of August to fully bloom, nurtured by phone calls and friendship…and love. "But I'm ready for more."

Martha threw her jeweled hands up toward the sky in dramatic thanks. "Holy Lord in the manger, the two of you finally figured it out. Hallelujah."

Beckett laughed again, feeling freer than she had in months. "You find religion up here, Martha?"

The redhead swatted at the detective's sleeve, a gesture to welcome her into the lively fray that defined the Castle family. "No. I've been working with their youth program. They're doing _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. _Occupational hazard with that story."

"Any dream will do." It seemed fitting, given the words she'd hoped to speak to Castle that night. But forever cautious, the detective searched the older woman's face for assurance. "You're okay with this?"

The brightness of Martha's smile rivaled the shine coming from the stage lights. "I trust you with my life. With Alexis'." She took Beckett's hands within her own. "And I trust you with Richard's heart."

Words failed her, and all she could return was a strained whisper. "Thank you, Martha."

Martha squeezed Kate's fingers. "Doll face, if you want to go try and catch up to him in the city -"

Beckett shook her head, though her feet began to burn, itching to run. "I came to see _you_, Martha."

Martha waved a hand at her. "Richard is supposed to come later in the week anyway, to tape the performance for Alexis. Come then. Or if you're working, you can watch it with us when Alexis gets back from Princeton."

_Us._ The word rolled around in her head a bit, metallic clanging off protective, barred up windows and doors. In the aftermath of her mother's death and her father's drinking, the idea of a family unit had splintered beyond repair.

Now it was a home rebuilt, sturdy as stone, and was being offered to her - in spades, even. She found herself reaching easily for it. Such a contrast from her reticence to even return Castle's call from earlier that summer, when doubts that swirled like misguided ghosts had weighed her reactions into sluggish hesitation.

The phone in her pocket rang and she glanced back at Martha, who had a knowing smile on her face. "Go get him, kiddo."

On impulse, Beckett reached over and hugged her again, tighter this time, and whispered, "Break a leg."

The redhead patted her on the cheek. "Darling, at my age, I'll be lucky not to break a hip."

They turned in opposite directions; Martha toward the stage door and Beckett to head back to her car, pulling the phone up to her ear as she strode determinedly toward that which she'd wanted so long.

Her "hi, you" to him was a little breathless, given the pace she walked, but it didn't much matter. He talked over her greeting, voice amused and slightly disbelieving. "Do not tell me you're in Massachusetts."

"Well, in a couple of minutes, I should be crossing the New York state line. That help?"

There was a clatter on the other end of the line as he dropped his phone in annoyance. After a long groan, he came back on and proclaimed, "This is ridiculous."

She put her car into drive and carefully made her way around the festival goers and toward the edge of campus. "We really need to stop thinking we know everything about each other. Particularly travel plans."

His voice became soft with his seriousness. "I thought it was supposed to be easier than this."

Flicking her indicator on, Beckett watched for traffic before merging onto the highway. "We mesh so well at work together because that's where our heads naturally _are_ most of the time. You're a sort of detective; have been since you started writing. But cases have finite conclusions; a beginning, middle and ending. Only so many avenues of investigation to follow. We're…in the middle of our own story, I suppose, and it can go _anywhere_. It's unlimited. It makes sense that we're a little off right now."

There was a long pause, and then his strained voice. "God, I need to see you."

She smiled, voice lowering to the timbre she tended to use on the phone with him: pliable, playful, but always sincere, trying to soothe his raw tone. "I'm on my way. Loft?"

"Depends. You wanna play hooky with me tomorrow?"

Temptation sped alongside her car as she started the three hour journey back towards the city. He seemed to sense that this pause wasn't borne of hesitation, but of consideration. "I'll make it worth your while."

She laughed. "I have no doubt about that, Castle."

"How many vacation days do you have stored up?"

There was only one answer. "Too many."

"And if you need to get back downtown for something, it's not like it's on the other side of the ocean."

It wasn't that hard of a decision, especially given the speed with which she left Williamstown (and hesitation) behind for Castle (and something she never thought she'd find.) "I'll call Montgomery in the morning and see if I can swing it."

His triumph was overt. "Then come to the beach house."

_Where I should have been all along_. "It'll be late when I get there," she warned.

"I think you're worth staying awake for."

She made a disputing noise in the back of her throat. "I don't know. You haven't seen me after three straight days of surveillance, bad coffee and stale donuts."

He seemed surprised. "Yeah, I have."

It knocked the wind out of her when she realized that he was right. He _had _seen her at her worst; when she had to tell a family their loved one wasn't coming home. When her faith in the system crumbled so much that she felt covered in dust. When life made it past her fortifications and chased her until she was branded by cruelty.

And he was still there. Yet another unexpected thing that happened in the days since Castle left.

For the first time since he'd left with Gina, tears pricked the back of Beckett's eyes.

She pressed harder on the accelerator, glancing to the globe light perched on her dash and damning the fact that it would be a massive breach of protocol to flip the siren on. At least she had her badge with her, should she get stopped for speeding.

_Damn, Kate, this guy's got you breaking all _sorts _of your rules, doesn't he?_

Shockingly, she found she didn't mind. Much.

Smile on her face and impatience in her foot, she said, "I'm almost there, Castle."

* * *

It was going on 11:30 by the time she pulled into the driveway. The house was surprisingly modest; a bungalow type construction that looked like it could be on any street in the country. Unlike the neighbors' properties, it wasn't surrounded by large brick walls, but instead a white picket fence.

It was open, inviting.

The epitome of "home."

She climbed out of the car and made her way to the front porch, heart beating a thousand miles an hour as she rang the doorbell. The opaque glass made it difficult to tell who was approaching her, but even if she'd seen who was coming, she still wouldn't have known what to say.

Gina opened the door with a smile on her face. "Damn. You must have a hell of a lead foot."

The warm welcome stunned Beckett into broken syllables of an answer. "Uh, yeah. I do."

The blonde stepped further into the house, allowing Kate to enter. Her shock dissipated into curiosity when she saw two large suitcases standing next to the front hall closet.

Gina's smile turned knowing as she said, "I got my manuscript. I'm heading back to the city first thing in the morning."

Beckett glanced at her. "I didn't mean to chase you away."

Gina's eyes bore into her. "_I_ didn't mean to walk in at the most inopportune time in history." Then, her face softened. "I'm so sorry I got in the way, Detective."

Kate was surprised to find she was shaking her head. "It's probably good you did, or we might still be back there, in that same holding pattern."

Gina leaned against the console table that was set against the foyer wall. "I'm just glad he came to his senses."

The detective quirked an eyebrow. "You knew?"

"It was hard not to. He's never been like this before; so focused, so charged. I think he got that from you. And not just working with you, either. Just…being around you. Actually, I should probably be thanking you. This," she pointed to the manuscript resting next to her hip, "is some of his best work in years."

Beckett glanced toward the back door, and saw his outline sitting on the sand, halfway to the water line. Gina straightened and walked to the staircase, repeating the words Castle's ex had said to her so many months before, when Beckett had been hiding the truth under a cloak of confusion. Now she was ready to own it; accept it. And proudly. "He's all yours."

Determined steps led the brunette outside and down the small porch steps. The sand greeted her enthusiastically, embracing her toes in a hug as her shoes sank into it. The rebuilt sandcastles stood regally at attention on the edges of the dunes, drawbridges lowered to welcome her and encourage her to explore.

Though she never made a sound, he knew she was there, and stood, an unreadable expression on his face.

There was a smile on hers, and when she reached him, her eyes worked frantically to drink the sight of him in. To convince her that she was there _with _him.

They were finally in the same place at the same time.

Her grin widened as she asked, "So. Good summer?"

He laughed, an intoxicating sound, and moved toward her, cupping her face and kissing her gently, the pressure of his mouth against hers weighted with so much of a future she hadn't dare consider. Then he pulled her against him, strong arms wrapping around her shoulders and her waist, making sure was real. Making sure she couldn't run.

She didn't. And she _wouldn't_, for they'd proven, over miles and phones and time apart, that she _couldn't_. They'd always find their way back to each other.

He pulled back, running his thumbs over her cheekbones, apparently stunned at her presence. "Hi, you."

She grinned again. "Hi back."

The night wind rustled a lock of her hair, and he curled it behind her ear. "All right, new ground rule: you come home with me every night. That way I'll know if you're halfway to Canada and can alert the Mounties."

She cocked her head to the side. "Why? I'm not the one with the penchant for stealing police horses."

He laughed again, his breath hot on her face, and he leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. "I can't believe you're finally here."

She rested her cheek against his stubble, running her hands beneath the sweatshirt he wore until her palms were flat against the small of his back. "I can't believe you blew off your mother's opening night."

He leaned back and shook a finger at her. "I can't believe _you_ blew off getting an award."

She shrugged, looking out toward the moonlight's reflection on the waves as they tumbled ashore. "I had more important things to do." Looking back up at him, she finished, "More important people to see." A pause, then, "I'm talking about Martha, of course."

He chuckled and shook his head, taking her bicep gently and easing her into a sitting position. She was pleasantly surprised when he sat down behind her, his bent legs on either side of her. Always protective.

She had always been the maker of her own destiny, relying on herself -never anyone else- to find relative safety and happiness, but, miraculously, _stunningly_, she found herself yielding to his caring embrace. Giving up her beloved control had never felt so intoxicating. She was surprised to find she was ferociously calm, not frenetically fearful as she'd been when summer burned the days in front of her. She should have felt like an oxymoron swathed in an incomprehensible situation, but realized that for once, everything victoriously made sense.

He kissed the side of her neck and said, "I don't think I'm going to be able to stop touching you."

She smiled. "You will if I get my Taser out."

He laughed, his breathy chuckle blowing her hair forward. "We're going to have to do something about this sadistic streak you seem to have."

"I would have thought it would be a turn on."

"Normally, it is. But you can do things that'd put me in traction."

She chuckled and then leaned back against his shoulder. As she interlaced his fingers with hers, the contact burned her skin with inevitability and the possibilities of what this could turn into. "So what now?"

"I finally make you a proper breakfast. There's nothing furry in _my_ fridge."

She chuckled. "Pancakes are always good, Castle."

He rested his chin on her shoulder and seemed enthralled with the way their fingers fit together. She shivered when he pressed a kiss behind her ear. Then, a thought. "We've never said it, you know."

He tilted his chin down, face so close to hers that their noses rested comfortably against one another. "Do we need to?"

The answer was as clear and obvious as the headlights on the other side of the highway had been as she drove. The strength of who they were together - the feelings they'd refused to name now didn't _need_ a name because they were now intrinsically instinctual - was as much a part of them as breathing.

She shook her head and relaxed more comfortably against him, looking toward the dark water. She thought back to the days after he'd come here, when she'd remembered time BC (Before Castle), and how strong and good she'd been in that era; how she'd survived just fine.

Now AD (After Distance), she could see that she was still a woman who knew how to kick ass and take names; could take care of _herself_. But she was also a woman who wanted this man beside her when she did it.

Now, she looked toward a horizon - a future - she could not see, and where BC it would have unnerved her, now AD, she was enthralled by it. Intrigued. Excited.

A whole new world, indeed.

_A/N: Credit for Martha's "Holy Lord in the manger" line goes to the heaven sent Alamo Girl._


	7. Epilogue: All That Lies Between Us

_A/N: Well, you made it through my crazy again. Congrats. I know there are a ton of post-finale fics out there (most of them done a lot __better than mine), so for you guys to take the time to read this means more to me than you'll ever know._

_And for one final time, thanks to my M&Ms: Mel and Meg, the best supporters in the history of ever._

* * *

**Epilogue: All That Lies Between Us**

An unexpected thing happened to Kate Beckett in the days after Castle left.

He came back.

When her phone flashed _Dispatch_ at her at an ungodly hour, her stomach still dropped, but she dutifully slid out of bed and walked to start the shower. She paused at her dresser to lay out her mother's ring and her father's watch, but her eyes were not on the jewelry. Instead, they were on the reflection in the mirror: toes peeking out from beneath her comforter.

And then she did something she never did when heading to a crime scene: she smiled.

She dragged a fingernail along Castle's bare foot, and received an incomprehensible grunt in reply. "Roll out in twenty," she said, cheery if only to annoy him.

As she disappeared into the bathroom and among the steam - not the specter of an unattainable future that had haunted her for so long - she thought about the fact that while it appeared that so much had changed, truthfully, nothing had.

She knew with certainty that they'd still bicker and banter; he'd still pull her pigtails, and she'd still scold him for playing Hangman or Pictionary on the white board. She also knew they'd devote every ounce of energy they had to institute law and order once more. A paradigm of balance.

They'd still see death and ask for explanations that didn't exist. But instead of walking the path alone, they'd have each other to hang on to. To carry them through.

The only thing she was afraid of was what the boys would do when they found out. She'd bet Castle twenty bucks that by lunch time, there would be Photoshopped pictures of the two of them in compromising positions, or a forensic art rendering of what their children might look like. (Though she'd _never_ admit it to Castle, even under oath, she was actually half interested in how the composites would turn out.)

When she stepped out of the shower, he greeted her with two cups of coffee and, somehow, a bear claw. She quirked her eyebrow in confusion, and he simply smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "I'll be ready in five."

True to his word, he was. He ushered her out the door with a hand on the small of her back, which slid up to cup her shoulders and pull her snugly against him.

As they waited for the elevator, she glanced at him sidelong and said, "If you say, '_is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me,'_ I _will_ leave you here."

He smiled, then boldly stole a kiss as the elevator doors opened. "Noted." When they arrived in the garage, he leaned in closely again, running a finger down her neck, which he'd quickly figured out was one of her erogenous zones. "Can I drive?"

She pinned him with a disbelieving stare, and he dropped his head in acquiescence. "Hey, it was worth a shot."

She climbed in, and then watched as "the writer of wrongs" righted their own. He slid into the passenger seat, and finally, all was right in her world again.

As she pulled onto the surface streets, her hands moved from their customary "ten and two" position to about nine o'clock and covering Castle's hand. He turned his palm upward and interlocked their fingers.

It was heartstoppingly new, but somehow also deliciously normal.

There were no words said, but not because she was again at a loss; blank like the board in the bullpen would be for a few hours more. Instead, she reveled in the peace that accompanied them to the scene. The same peace they'd be able to use to walk yet another family through hell on Earth.

She nodded her thanks to the officer who had cordoned off the crime scene as he lifted up the yellow tape to allow them to pass. As she put the car into park, she saw Ryan and Esposito further down the gravel access road, backs to the riverbed and their crime scene, and instead staring at a doubly occupied car that, for the last few months, had only held a driver.

Castle glanced down at her. "You ready for this?"

She took a deep breath. "Honestly? Not in the slightest. But," she squeezed his hand, "there's no place else I'd rather be."

He pressed a kiss to her temple - a gesture that had the audience outside catcalling within two seconds - and then pushed his door open. He waited for her at the front of the car, and they walked to the scene.

Together.

Beckett pushed her sunglasses on top of her head, ignored the boys and knelt next to Lanie, who was desperately trying to keep the shock from registering on her face.

But Kate had gone into detective mode, and when Castle crouched down next to her, they asked in tandem, "What have we got?"

FIN


End file.
